A Dome of Many-Coloured Glass

At Night

          The wind is singing through the trees to-night,
           A deep-voiced song of rushing cadences
           And crashing intervals.  No summer breeze
          Is this, though hot July is at its height,
          Gone is her gentler music; with delight
           She listens to this booming like the seas,
           These elemental, loud necessities
          Which call to her to answer their swift might.
           Above the tossing trees shines down a star,
           Quietly bright; this wild, tumultuous joy
          Quickens nor dims its splendour.  And my mind,
           O Star! is filled with your white light, from far,
           So suffer me this one night to enjoy
          The freedom of the onward sweeping wind.